Bad Boys Pt 1
Lara Walker was thinking little more than returning home, crawling into a bottle, hopefully with her patrol partner, watching the game he recorded earlier as if there were any chance of that happening. Her partner, once more than her partner, became more distant over time, and the whole situation was frustrating. Now with Niska breathing down their necks, the entire force was on alert which meant double the shifts without overtime. To say she was a might bit unhinged about the situation was the understatement that ate Ezra. Jon Bates, not the most hinged to begin with, was also feeling the strain... So when this fancy britched sonuvabitch was seen leaving the Gold Strike with the Davis kid, the two of them paid more attention, Jon nudging her to get her attention. The kid was a local, and like most local urchins, filched stuff now and again, so when they saw him and Mr. High Society boosting something from the back of the Gold Strike, they took notice. “Evenin’ Eddie.” Jon called, and the color drained from the kid's face. “Officer Bates, Walker.” The kid replied sheepishly, his hand going to the back of his neck. “Whatcha got there.” Officer Bates tapped the Denta-Kiln with the non-business end of his billy club. “I was just helping, I swear.” He said, nervously. “Tha boy was helpin’ me,” Dorian Adler interjected. “This device is mine, officer. It’s a touch heavy tah lift, so he kindly offered tah assist.” “Which still didn’t answer the question asked, which was -- Whatcha got there?” Jon repeated. Lara looked slightly uneasy, but she checked both ways to conduct any crowd control if need be. Adler offered a good-natured chuckle. The dynamic was heading south. The kid...Eddie, apparently, was tense, his posture belying the sudden indecision between running or cowering in place. The woman’s eyes were an important tell, a quick scan of both ways along the alley behind the Gold Strike. He’d seen that before. This was going to go one of two ways, he mused as he patted the stainless steel top. “This is a dental kiln,” he offered, “fah the creation of porcelain dentures. Ah’m a dentist. Dorian Adler, doctah of dental surgery, at your service.” “You have any identification, Dorian Adler, doctor of dental surgery?” “Of course,” he answered with a tranquil smile. A slow reach into the pocket of his duster coat revealed two objects. The first, his business card, landed atop the kiln next to the second, his cash purse. We’ll see how the wind blows, he thought as he made a show of patting his pockets in a fruitless search. One law dog was studying the purse. C’mon, he thought. Be corrupt police… “Officahs, Ah apologize,” he said to the pair. “Ah must’ve left mah ident back with mah things. That’s mah business card. Several of your friends and neighbors came by fah dental treatment today. Perhaps Ah might offer…” “Quiet.” Jon snapped. He had already picked up Dorian’s coin purse and quietly pocketed it, while Lara went through the boy's belongings, grabbing a dog eared book out of his hands. “So, Eddie,” Lara said, wanting the attention of her partner. “You read?” She opened the book to the mark - one of the dentist’s cards were holding the place. Flipping it over in her hand, #7 was written on the back, so she showed it to her partner, then examined the book closer and scoffed. “Well -- He is who he says he is.” She turned the book to Jon, a perfect black and white likeness of Dorian Adler looked back at him from the dog eared page. “A celebrity.” Jon mocked. “Then maybe you have a bit more coin to be offering? Hands on your--” he waved dismissively towards the denta-kiln. “Kid, get outta here. And if we catch you around the Gold Strike again, we’ll haul your ass in for --” He looked at Lara. “Underaged drinking.” She offered. “Underaged drinking.” He repeated. Of course, the greatest challenge to Dorian’s freedom was now a pronounced absence of coin from his person. While anyone knew to venture the streets of Ezra with a fat purse was a fool’s errand, his newfound status as a “celebrity” was somehow the antidote. “Ah’ve been robbed before,” he said cautiously, “not in your fine jurisdiction, of course, but the lesson stuck, Ah’m afraid. That’s all tha coin Ah have on me. If yah wanted tah drop by in tha mornin’ fah, say, a dental checkup, Ah think we might arrive at an accord?” The kid was gone...another witness departed. Two cops...one of ‘em reading a pretty gorram salacious account of his past as the other held a nightstick at the ready. He wouldn’t say the odds were impossible to talk himself out, but the stack against him would definitely cast a long shadow. Jon looked at Lara and she shook her head. Shaking someone down in a back alley was one thing. Going to his ship, no matter what ‘accord’ he was promising weren’t worth it. “Says here he’s a gunslinger. Killed a man after cheating him at cards,” Lara offered, reading more of Dorian’s ‘accounts” in the books. Dorian smirked. “Just one of tha misrepresentations Ah pointed out tah yah young friend. Tha book also says Ah’m taller,” he chuckled, noting that his own stature wasn’t much raised above the woman’s. “The book can say what it wants.” Jon said, out of patience. “ *I* said put yer hands on your kiln and spread ‘em.” He emphasized his point with a thrust of his billy club into Dorian’s abdomen. “So you can comply, or you can resist. Guess which one I’m hoping you choose?” Adler sighed. Two yokel cops...a dark alley...no witnesses. His pistols could end this encounter within the next second and a half. But that would be the beginning of his challenges, what with the surrounding town a virtual hive of purple troops. If they were thinking, which they probably were, Lunar Veil was already on landlock. With no other boats in the few docking berths, that meant an escape would be into the surrounding desert. A romantic ending fah this story, he thought of the book, but hardly practical. He turned, moving to lift his hands toward the stainless steel box on the mule’s trailer. “Ah’d think yah’d choose that smart man’s path,” he muttered. While Lara continued to read the tall tales laid out in the ragged book, Jon searched Dorian’s person, pulling out various firearms - not a crime to carry, but Jon was a collector, so he pocketed them as well, along with a watch, most of which could be pawned. “Ah’ll be expectin’ those back,” Dorian said over his shoulder as the cop stripped away his pistols. “And that pocket watch as well.” So far, this had all the looks of a classic arrest. A night in the local pokey, no doubt, followed by the climax of this little affair with the local magistrate...no doubt with his own palm raised. “What am Ah bein’ charged with?” Dorian asked as his medical bag was thrust open. “Possession.” Jon said, taking a bag which didn’t start out being in Dorian’s bag -- from his bag. “With intent to sell.” Adler offered a mirthless chuckle. “Hard tah believe, given the nature of your employer, that this is your play?” “It’s our play for right now. Plus we got you for resisting arrest.” That was the cue. The obligatory beat down would begin any second now. There were few cards left to play. Might as well play them for what they were worth. “A’m sure Mister Niska will be very disappointed…” Jon brought his baton down across the broadside of Dorian’s back. “You think Niska will care that some fancy pants slick talker spenden a complimentary night in jail? Maybe someone on this ship will pay to bail you out in the morning. Dollars to donuts you won’t show up for court, so that bail money gets forfeited.” The billy club came down the length of his back this time. The first blow staggered him; the second brought Dorian to his knees. “They say,” he gasped between lungfuls of fiery air, “the Niska has...a private torture room….just off his office. Can’t wait tah see y’all two hangin’ there…” “For arresting some lowlife drifting dealer?” Dorian laughed. “Tha lowlife driftin’ dealer he was expectin’ for a nine o’clock meetin’. So, officahs...y’all just wanna kiss my pi gu and beg forgiveness right here, of would yah rather wait til Niska starts quotin’ Shan Yu to yah?” “How’s about I kick your pi gu, and you shut your yap. He’s bluffing.” Jon told his partner, putting his boot to Dorian’s back, kicking him forward into the dirt. “Jon, what if he’s not?” Lara worried. “Don’t be stupid. Mister, if I had a credit every time some scumbag drifter warned me about Niska… cuff ‘em.” “Jon--” “Do I have to do every ruttin’ thing myself?” He grabbed the cuffs from his partner. “You’re gonna find out,” Dorian laughed as his wrists were forced behind his back. Then, he was singing…”You’re gonna find out….you’re gonna find out….cut you inta bits,” he half sang, half laughed. “Slice off both your tits…...you’re gonna find out….” Jon kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to garner more than attention, then grabbed him by the back of his hair. Using that and his arms to yank Dorian to his feet. He tapped the nightstick to Dorian’s chest, grazing his chin, then in a backhanded strike, brought the club across the dentist’s temple. Somewhere, tucked neatly into a remote part of his mind, was a physician. As the pummeling moved onward, that physician kept a neat tally of the blows delivered and potential injuries sustained. “Two contusions, shoulder blades...entirely muscular. Facial abrasions….potential bruising. Some hair follicle extrusion...minor. Baton blow”...the nasty crunch that accompanied the strike set the physician on a darker diagnostic path. “Fractures...potential right zygomatic...outer orbital….” His voice now came as a slur, which prompted the inner physician to add “concussion” to the list. But despite the cautionary nature of the growing list, the die had been cast. “You’re right,” his voice came thick and muffled. “Niska won’t touch you two...cause Ah’ll be killin’ yah myself…” The comment earned him one more blow to the abdomen. “Good luck with that.” Jon said with a sneer, tossing the semi-conscious dentist into the back of their vehicle. “Good luck with that.”